


The Perfect Gift

by nox_candida



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Matchmaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-01
Updated: 2011-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Would you believe it if I said it’s not what it looks like?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Perfect Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thimpressionist](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thimpressionist).



> Written as a pinch hit for thimpressionist for the sherlockmas holiday fic exchange on LJ. The prompt asked for first time John/Lestrade. Sorry I didn't get to the smut, but I hope you'll like this anyway. :) Beta'd by the marvelous humantales and Britpicked by the fantastic melaszka.

When he’d burst into the room, Lestrade hadn’t been completely certain what, exactly, he was expecting to find. A kidnapper, obviously, and John Watson being restrained—maybe with handcuffs or maybe with cable ties—and possibly gagged. If nothing else, he’d certainly expected a tense and potentially dangerous situation.

What he _hadn’t_ expected, was to be way off the mark—more wrong than right, in fact. He definitely hadn’t been expecting the man to be restrained by a large red bow, wearing nothing but skin tight leather trousers and a half-sheepish, half-mortified look on his face.

And while Lestrade certainly couldn’t deny that the sight was enticing, he was proud to say that he didn’t allow any of the shock or bewilderment—or, for that matter, any other emotion—he was feeling to show on his face beyond a raised eyebrow.

It was fascinating, not to mention distracting, to watch John squirm.

“Would you believe it if I said it’s not what it looks like?”

Lestrade tilted his head slightly to the side, sizing the other man up. “That’s got to be an interesting story.”

John sighed, his face flushed red and eyes darting to look everywhere but at the Detective Inspector.

“It was all Sherlock’s idea.”

“Isn’t it always?”

*

Sherlock started it.

Lestrade was in charge of a crime scene in Camberwell, a prostitute beaten to death by an unknown client—not the kind of thing he _usually_ needed Sherlock’s help with, but he’d taken to following John Watson’s blog and could read between the lines that the situation in Baker Street was becoming desperate—when he’d caught sight of the man himself leaning over the body. He couldn’t even remember what he’d been thinking at the time—honestly, if anyone had asked, he’d have put his staring down to absent-mindedness—when he’d heard a sound of disgust off to his right.

Lestrade had turned and had been unsurprised to see Sherlock looking down at him, though the expression of mingled disdain, smugness, and fascination was unexpected. Actually, thinking back on it, the fascination in Sherlock’s eyes had been disturbing, but he hadn’t realised that until later.

“Really, Lestrade?” Sherlock had asked, as if they’d been in the middle of some sort of conversation. Which they hadn’t.

“What?” he’d asked in confusion.

Sherlock sighed heartily, sounding distinctly long suffering. “Well, I suppose you could do much worse.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Sherlock?” he’d asked in annoyance.

The infuriating man simply waved a hand at him as though he couldn’t be bothered to answer the question when there were more interesting things happening, and walked past him towards John and the body. “I’m sure it’s mutual,” he’d said offhandedly, over his shoulder.

Lestrade stared after him and was on the verge of following to demand a clear answer when he was distracted by Sherlock’s epiphany that the killer was _obviously the prostitute’s girlfriend, my God, none of you ever pay attention, can’t you see this strand of red hair and this streak of powder? Dull._

And then he’d flounced out, John following with an apologetic look in Lestrade’s direction, and it was up to him to wrap up the scene, do the paperwork, and inform the girl’s family. In other words, the real work of trying to take the messy strands of emotion and fact and tie all the threads up into some sort of discernible truth, a ribbon around a story that would make sense and grant closure.

As if real life were that simple.

*

“...so you see, I didn’t _actually_ realise what he meant until I’d already agreed to let him tie the bow around me.” John cleared his throat awkwardly and turned redder, if it was possible. “I didn’t know you were going to show up.”

“Ah.” Lestrade cleared his throat as well. Now that the adrenalin of a potentially dangerous hostage situation involving someone he called a friend had been put to rest, he wasn’t sure how to feel. Angry with Sherlock, for one. Annoyed with Sherlock, for another. Appreciative of the view—even amused, somewhere deep inside.

And then it occurred to him. “Hang on, that doesn’t explain the leather trousers.”

“Erm,” John said, grimacing and shuffling his feet. Lestrade watched the blush spread down his chest and found himself hard pressed to look away. “About that....”

*

There were times he hated the job, and then there were times he loved it, like _now_. The thrill of the chase, of knowing that the bad guys were about to be put away, that good still triumphed—those were the things that made hours of inspecting phone records, of filling out forms, of dealing with the vultures in the press worth it.

He’d seen how the job could wear away at a man, how it eroded the good in a person until they became no better than the people they chased, and he refused—absolutely _refused_ —to become like them. He had to hold tight to that sense of purpose or he’d lose himself, never to be found again. The thought terrified him when he allowed himself to think it, so he did his best not to, rather taking each day as it came. He simply did his best never to let the necessary evils of the job tarnish him permanently.

But with the thrill comes danger—though the kind of danger of carrying nothing more threatening than his fists against a population using decidedly deadlier weapons has its own appeal—and, sometimes, injury.

Sherlock had been on the hunt, his long limbs and intense focus carrying him away until both he and John lagged behind. He couldn’t tell what the other man had been feeling—his face was turned away—but he felt a burning sense of frustration that he had to rely on Sherlock to catch the man and that Sherlock had conveniently forgotten to mention where the suspect might be heading.

He slowed to a jog, reaching for his radio to direct their backup towards Kennington Park—the only clue they had given as to the direction they were headed and the location of the suspect’s flat—when he heard a strangled noise coming from John, followed immediately by the sound of a gun firing.

In the next instant, he was flung to the ground by the shorter man and he felt a searing heat along his left shoulder.

“Fuck!” he screamed, instinctively curling away from the pain, which doubled when John hauled him around a corner and into an adjacent alley.

“Put pressure on it,” John ordered him, reaching to his back to remove a handgun. He gingerly sneaked a look around the corner only to flinch back a moment later at the sound of another shot and a small puff of masonry as the bullet hit the wall. Lestrade reached for his shoulder automatically, hissing in pain as he pressed down.

He watched, a bit dazed, as John took a deep breath and poked his head around the corner again, his hands steady and squeezed off two shots before completely ducking back to safety and walking quickly over to Lestrade’s side.

“Let me see,” he said briskly as he pushed Lestrade’s hand aside and removed the DI’s jacket and shirt efficiently.

“Not bad,” he said a moment later. “Just a graze, but we need to get you out of here and to a hospital.”

“So that’s the gun that killed the cabbie,” Lestrade said, and watched in dim amusement as John looked at him awkwardly, though without much shame.

“Possibly,” John said, neutrally, though his face was a bit pink. Lestrade found himself absurdly thinking it a good colour on the man. In his pain-induced delirium, he might have actually mentioned it to the man. He would strenuously deny it later, if asked. “You’re not going to tell on me, are you?”

“I suppose not,” Lestrade said, wincing as John pressed Lestrade’s shirt onto the wound to staunch the bleeding.

“Good answer, because I have it on good authority that you’ve seen the Twilight movies and I’d hate it if that nasty rumour got around.”

Lestrade spluttered, indignant. He could hear sirens in the distance, getting louder. “Low blow. And completely untrue, by the way.”

John smirked at him and helped him to his feet. “Team Edward or Team Jacob?”

“Fuck off.” Lestrade gritted his teeth as his shoulder was jostled by John’s. “Bet you’re Team Edward,” he accused in a strained voice, and then managed a pained laugh at the look of disgust on John’s face.

“If I were into tall, skinny blokes that sparkled in the sun, I’d be all over Sherlock,” John said with a roll of his eyes.

“You’re not?” The words were out before his brain had caught up and he grimaced.

“Not you, too,” John grumbled.

“Sorry, mate, but you’ve got to admit...”

“No, I really don’t. I’m going to give you a pass because you’ve been injured and you’re in shock.”

“Well, what team are you on?” Lestrade asked as they made their way from the alley and were confronted by Donovan and Hopkins.

He was almost immediately distracted by the two DS’s running over to check on him, but he later told himself he’d imagined John saying, “Yours.”

*

“Leather, really?”

John shrugged, his face still bright red. “Apparently he deduced that you own a motorbike and that, consequently, leather would appeal.”

Now it was Lestrade’s turn to shift a bit on his feet, averting his eyes. “Yes. Well. I still don’t understand...” he began, but trailed off as his eyes came to rest on something white dangling from the red ribbon. “Is that a gift tag?” he asked, incredulously.

“I have no idea,” John answered.

Lestrade found himself compelled to reach forward and grab the gift tag— _gift tag_ , honestly—and read it.

 _To DI Lestrade: You see, but you don’t **observe** and—as you find yourself out of your depth, as usual—I’ve been forced to point out the obvious once again. Merry Christmas. SH_

“Arrogant git,” Lestrade said reflexively, but without any real heat. He was more nervous than upset anyway.

“But he’s usually right.”

“Yes. Damn him.”

*

“You want to have a pint sometime?” he found himself asking John one day, at a crime scene—and really, he shouldn’t be asking at that moment because he was _working,_ damn it, but he couldn’t help himself. Besides, it was neutral territory and seemed, somehow, safer.

John blinked at him in surprise. “Me?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it was no big deal when, in reality, his heart was beating double time in his chest. “Thought you might like a break from the mad scientist for a bit.”

John laughed, looking surprised. “I wouldn’t say no,” he said after a moment, smiling.

“Great,” Lestrade answered, smiling in return.

And they’d had a pint, which had turned into takeaway at his place, which had turned into a Doctor Who marathon on the sofa, although they were only half paying attention.

“You really don’t see the similarities?” John asked him in disbelief.

“No. Look, okay, there’s the coat, and the suits—debatably—”

“Debatably?”

“Hear me out,” Lestrade said, gesturing towards David Tennant with his beer. “Right, okay. Skinny, the suits—not the same, though, because the Doctor wears a tie—a genius, so far I agree with you.”

“Thank you.”

“But the Doctor cares, which is more than you can say for—”

“He _does_ care, deep down,” John said, stubbornly. And a moment later added, off Lestrade’s sceptical look, “Very deep down.”

Lestrade scoffed, taking a long swig from his beer. “Okay, one more. Inspires loyalty in his assistants.”

John glared at him. “Colleague. And friend.”

“Does that make you Rose?”

“Do I _look_ like a 19 year old shop girl with no future?”

“Well,” Lestrade began speculatively, eyeing John up and down critically, “you sometimes have the stars in your eyes that she did—hey!” Lestrade broke off, laughing, as John punched him hard in the shoulder.

“Wanker,” John grumbled, finishing off his beer and heading into the kitchen to grab another.

“Get me one, too,” Lestrade called at him, and then laughed again when John gave him the two fingered salute.

“All right, so if you’re not Rose, who are you?” Lestrade asked once John sat back down, doing his best to keep the mirth from his face. He was hoping that the warm, comfortable feeling unfurling in his stomach and chest wasn’t visible there, either.

“None of the above,” John answered firmly.

“No, you can’t do that, you have to pick.”

“Fine. Amy, probably.”

“Really?” Lestrade asked, looking at John curiously. “Why?”

He shrugged, eyes glued to the screen. “Because even though she’s fascinated by the Doctor, there’s someone else she ends up with at the end of the day,” he said, quietly. And then, as if realising he’d said too much, he cleared his throat and said lightly, “And because she’s better at a few things than he is.”

But Lestrade found himself focused on the first part, the part that seemed truer than the rest, and the way John’s lips looked as he said them. “Rory really grew on me,” Lestrade said, hesitantly.

“Yeah?”

Lestrade nodded, staring at John—who, he noted, was staring back. John’s blue eyes seemed bluer, and his face seemed closer; he could feel the man’s breath whooshing across his nose and cheeks, making his lips tingle in anticipation.

And then John’s mobile buzzed and both men jumped guiltily.

“Sorry,” John said, blushing and hastily grabbing his mobile to look at the text message.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, his mouth dry at the near miss.

“Yeah,” John answered reluctantly, and Lestrade saw him look at him apologetically. It wasn’t the same look he got when Sherlock said or did something particularly bad, not exactly. It looked apologetic, but also regretful, as if he had no desire to leave.

“Well, I’ll see you,” he said, after the silence stretched out awkwardly between them.

“Right,” Lestrade answered, standing up at the same time as the other man. “See you.”

He watched John walk out of his flat and he’d sat back down on the sofa and stared at the screen, not really seeing anything that was happening.

It was the next day, as he was heading into work, that he got a text from Sherlock and he didn’t hesitate.

John was missing.

*

“Does he have any idea that we’re adults and can work this out on our own?”

“No,” John answered, bluntly. “He’s convinced that we wouldn’t resolve anything left to our own devices.”

Lestrade shook his head. “Arrogant git.” He was still holding onto the tag when he noticed a small arrow pointing to the edge. Curiously, he turned it over.

 _And in case that wasn’t blunt enough for you—given your observational skills, I’m inclined to think it wasn’t—please shag him senseless and make the work environment slightly less miserable. SH._

When he looked up at John, the man was as red as a tomato and looking down at the ground. “Well?” he asked quietly, his voice low with a strangled quality that Lestrade rather liked.

“Well,” he said carefully, stepping closer and grabbing hold of the ribbon wrapped around John’s torso, “who am I to contradict the world’s only consulting detective? Especially when he’s got me the perfect gift.”

And then he leaned forward and captured John’s pleased smile in a deep kiss.


End file.
